Two hours after he again landed at Pianosa, where he was assured that red partridges abounded. The sport was bad; Franz only succeeded in killing a few partridges, and, like every unsuccessful sportsman, he returned to the boat very much out of temper.
“Ah, if your excellency chose,” said the captain, “you might have capital sport.”
“Where?”
“Do you see that island?” continued the captain, pointing to a conical pile rising from the indigo sea.
“Well, what is this island?”
“The Island of Monte Cristo.”
“But I have no permission to shoot over this island.”
“Your excellency does not require a permit, for the island is uninhabited.”
“Ah, indeed!” said the young man. “A desert island in the midst of the Mediterranean must be a curiosity.”
“It is very natural; this island is a mass of rocks, and does not contain an acre of land capable of cultivation.”
“To whom does this island belong?”
“To Tuscany.”
“What game shall I find there!”
“Thousands of wild goats.”